(As just one example, the editor changed one description of “ice in the south” to “ice in the north,” because apparently they couldn’t imagine a fantasy world that wasn’t Eurocentric.)
So, from October of 2016 to May of 2017, I engaged in a huge project to re-edit and re-release all of my books. I eventually took to calling it the Restoration Project. Restoring the books to my own voice—but also getting them actually professionally edited by an actual professional editor.
I was so very happy when that project finally ended, just two months ago as I’m writing this. But then, all of a sudden, I found myself in an odd position: writing an entirely new book.
This is the first book that was conceived, outlined, written, and edited, all with my current workflow. And it’s the workflow I plan to use from here on out. My editor, Karen Conlin, is fantastic, and I’d be a fool to release a book she hasn’t worked on. My proofreaders are excellent; my beta readers are simply some of the best people.
The book you’ve just received is 100%, bona fide, pure Underrealm. Grade A. Just how I wanted it to be, and without any undesirables sticking their fingers into the mix.
(That means if you find a typo, I’m going to eat major crow—but at least it’s a mistake I can own!)
Oh, really, Garrett? So it was entirely your decision to kill Chet? Not sure you should be bragging about this.
Yeah …
Okay, there’s a bit to unpack here. Chet was … well, he was meant to be a few things.
You know by now that Underrealm is trying to be a bit different from a lot of fantasy universes out there. It draws from medieval times, yes—but it doesn’t feel obligated to obey the usual perception of medieval culture when it comes to societal norms.
And why should it? It’s not more ‘unrealistic’ to allow gay people to, you know, EXIST, than it is to have firemages and weremages. Or a Necromancer.
But with the exploration of gender, sexuality, and race in fantasy, there’s some other things I kind of … needed to do.
You see, there’s gender in story, and then there’s gender in storytelling. The two are related, but also separate. You can have different rules for different genders in your story—but, subconsciously, most storytellers apply different rules for different genders in their storytelling.
One of the most egregious ways this has manifested itself is in the concept of “fridging.” Like the word fridge, but a verb. In summary, it’s when female characters are harmed or killed in order to further the storyline and character development of a male character.
This isn’t just because they’re women and women are treated worse in the story universe—a male companion of the male character would serve just as well—but because so many writers consider women characters to be little more than a prop that helps the male protagonist.
(If you’re wondering, the word “fridging” comes from the surprisingly frequent number of times these women are killed and then literally stuffed into a fridge for the male character to find. Pleasant, right?)
So, from the beginning, The Nightblade Epic was meant to be an exploration of gender dynamics in fantasy and adventure stories, and what those dynamics would look like if they were flipped on their head. That’s why Chet suffered what he did in the previous book, Weremage. That’s why he went through what he did in this book. And it’s why his story ended the way it did.
Not only because I wanted to flip the trope on its head and see how straight white guys liked it when their sole representation in the story was used in this way—though I personally think that would have been a good enough reason, all on its own, to do so. But, I hope, I managed Chet’s storyline in a way that’s more respectful than “fridged” women usually get.
Because it isn’t just fridging itself that’s so annoying, or even its prevalence in storytelling. It’s the way the women in these scenarios just … suck. As characters, I mean. They really aren’t people to the storytellers. They’re plot devices for the purpose of enhancing the person the writer really cares about—their protagonist, who’s almost always a straight white dude.
But I cared about Chet. I care about Chet. No, he wasn’t perfect. But he was mine, and I loved him. I tried my damndest to make him a real person—and to show what a real person would act like if they went through what he went through.
And holy shit, dear reader, when I wrote that scene, I cried. I stopped writing and I cried for … well, a good long while. And then when I was editing it? I cried again. Every time. There was no vindictive glee in what I did, the way it really feels like there is when some writers fridge women.
If you don’t think Chet was well characterized, that’s on me. But I assure you, it wasn’t for lack of intent. And I hope it’s just one example writers can use to understand their characters need to be people—even if they are victims who only exist to develop the hero into a better person.
So there you go. The first book I’ve written since the Restoration Project, and it culminates in a storyline I’ve been planning since Darkfire.
It’s all over now, right? All downhill from here?
Hah. Not even close. The next three books? Also been planned for a looong time. They’ll take a while to produce—but I promise I’ll try to make them worth the wait.
And in the meantime, thank you so much for going on this journey with me. I hope I haven’t hurt you too badly along the way.
Thank you for everything you do to make my life epic. Here’s to lots more epicness in the days and years to come.
Garrett Robinson,
July 2017
P.S. This is also the first book I’ve published since my dad passed away, just a few weeks ago. He was a hell of a guy, and one of my biggest and earliest fans. I read him an early draft a few days before the end.
This book, and every one I write hereafter, is for him and my mom.
Garrett,
September 2017
CONNECT ONLINE
FACEBOOK
Want to hang out with other fans of the Underrealm books? There’s a Facebook group where you can do just that. Join the Nine Lands group on Facebook and share your favorite moments and fan theories from the books. I also post regular behind-the-scenes content, including information about the world you can’t find anywhere else. Visit the link to be taken to the Facebook group:
Underrealm.net/nine-lands
YOUTUBE
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But not cats.
Never cats.
GarrettBRobinson.com/yt
THE BOOKS OF UNDERREALM
BY GARRETT ROBINSON
To see all novels in the world of Underrealm, visit:
Underrealm.net/books
THE NIGHTBLADE EPIC
NIGHTBLADE
MYSTIC
DARKFIRE
SHADEBORN
WEREMAGE
YERRIN
THE ACADEMY JOURNALS
THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH
THE MINDMAGE’S WRATH
THE FIREMAGE’S VENGEANCE
TALES OF THE WANDERER
BLOOD LUST
STONE SKIN
HELL SKIN
CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
NIGHTBLADE
MYSTIC
DARKFIRE
SHADEBORN
BLOOD LUST
THE ALCHEMIST’S TOUCH
THE MINDMAGE’S WRATH
WEREMAGE
STONE SKIN
THE FIREMAGE’S VENGEANCE
HELL SKIN
YERRIN
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Garrett Robinson was born and raised in Los Angeles. The son of an author/painter father and a violinist/singer mother, no one was surprised when he grew up to be an artist.
After blooding himself in the independent film industry, he self-published his first book in 2012 and swiftly followed it wi
th a stream of others, publishing more than two million words by 2014. Within months he topped numerous Amazon bestseller lists. Now he spends his time writing books and directing films.
A passionate fantasy author, his most popular series is the Nightblade Epic. However, he has delved into many other genres. Some works are for adult audiences only, such as Non Zombie and Hit Girls, but he has also published popular books for younger readers, including the Realm Keepers series and The Ninjabread Man, both co-authored with Z.C. Bolger.
Garrett lives in Los Angeles with his wife Meghan, his children Dawn, Luke, and Desmond, and his dog Chewbacca.
Garrett can be found on:
YOUTUBE: youtube.com/TheGarrettRobinson
BLOG: GarrettBRobinson.com
EMAIL: [email protected]
TWITTER: twitter.com/GarrettAuthor
FACEBOOK: facebook.com/GarrettBRobinson
DAMARIS SAT AT HER WRITING desk, penning a letter bound for the Seat. Her room at the inn felt … empty somehow. It was strange. She had spent many years of her life without Gregor at her side. Why did this time feel different? Why did she feel his absence so keenly?
She shook off such thoughts. It would not be long before he came to join her. Indeed, it was only his paranoia that had made him send her out of the city in the first place. The dear man wanted to take every precaution, now that they knew this disturbing business about Loren’s dreams.
Her quill paused on the parchment. Dreams of the future. It was a terrifying prospect—but also it seemed to her to be an incredible opportunity. What might she do if she could see what was to come? But the boy had told her the dreams came after Loren met with Elves, and Damaris was not so great a fool as to trifle with them in hopes they would give her the same gift.
A tremor of fear ran through her as she thought of Gregor back in Danfon. Alone.
She shook her head. Fear was ridiculous. Knowledge of the future could not help Loren. Eventually Gregor would figure out a way to draw her within reach. What good would foresight be then? At best it would show her just how Gregor would dismantle her piece by piece. Indeed, it seemed Loren had dreamed of it already, if the boy was to be believed.
And Damaris had used all her skill with a knife to ensure that, indeed, he could be believed.
Sighing, Damaris stood from the desk and crossed the room to refill her wine. Foresight was a power indeed. Loren was certainly misusing it. But it explained how she had always remained on Damaris’ trail, always just one step behind her. What a myopic, uninspired use for such a gift.
Damaris rolled a knot from her neck as she sipped her wine. Some things, sadly, could never be changed. That was a fact of the world that she had had to accept long ago. Loren’s great weakness was that she refused to accept it. Why, if Damaris acted the same way, her life would be spent in constant terror of the Necromancer and their—
The thought pained her. She shied away. Never mind the Necromancer. That thought must be stowed until she had devised a solution for it.
A knock came at her door.
Damaris paused. It was no attack, that much was certain. She had been fleeing across Dorsea fast enough that, even knowing where she was bound, Loren would never be able to catch her. Gregor? But no, the knock was not heavy enough for that.
“Enter.”
The door opened. A messenger came into the room, stopping for a deep bow.
“Good eve, my lady.”
“Good eve,” said Damaris. “What is it?”
“I …” The messenger stopped. Her lips twitched, fighting for words.
A tremor passed through Damaris’ breast. Her fingers tightened on the stem of her goblet.
“What have you come to say? Spit it out.”
“It is Gregor, my lady. He … he is dead.”
The goblet fell from Damaris’ fingers and crashed to the floor, sending its wine to soak into the fine rug at her feet.
“My lady,” said the messenger, leaping forwards to pick it up. “I will fetch a—”
“Silence,” said Damaris. The messenger froze. “Was it the girl?”
The woman’s skin went a shade paler. She nodded.
“Thank you,” said Damaris. “That will be all.”
The messenger opened her mouth as if to say something else. But she thought better of it, turned, and left the room.
Only then did Damaris let herself collapse into the chair by the writing desk.
Gregor. Her oldest friend. Her closest companion. Theirs was the greatest love she had ever seen or heard tale about—not the love of those who share a bed, but of those who share their lives together, their every innermost thought. Indeed, he was worth more than every man she had taken to bed all put together. He had saved her life, had been there as she raised Annis.
And now he was gone.
She did not weep openly, but she could not stop the tears from slowly leaking. Her grip tightened on the back of the chair until her knuckles had gone very nearly white.
And for the first time since she could remember, a feeling wrapped its deathly fingers around her heart. An emotion she was not at all familiar with. A pure, cold, unrelenting fear.
The dream took him.
The girl in the cloak knelt over Gregor. She leaned down to whisper something in the giant’s ear, but she spoke too softly to hear. The man in black could only watch as the girl leaned farther over, drawing her dagger across Gregor’s throat. The giant’s blood splashed across the carpet. It gave the man in black a sense of grim satisfaction. The girl in the cloak had succeeded where he had failed.
The girl slowly stood and turned to him. Her eyes had that glow—akin to magelight, and yet different. He had never seen anything like it before—and that was not something he could say for most things under the sky.
The girl drew closer. The man tensed. He had not felt fear for a very long time, but he felt … awareness. Caution. His every sense strained, ready to react if she should attack him.
“I killed him,” said the girl in the black cloak. “But I will need to kill many more.”
“Then do it,” he said. “No one can stop you.”
“I am not ready,” said the girl in the black cloak. “Not yet. Help me.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “I am no nursemaid. Get someone else to draw the knife for you.”
Her green eyes pierced him, holding him in place. She lifted the dagger and pressed its point against his heart.
The man did not like threats. The man liked to end threats. But he could not lift his hands to pull her away. The dream would not let him.
“Help me,” she rasped.
The dream released him.
The man in black started awake in his bed.
The dreamsight passed almost at once. He took two deep breaths to calm himself, and it was gone. Gently he massaged his temples and then rolled his shoulders to relax them.
Moonslight through the window. Still night. That was odd. The dreams did not often wake him before morning. Not any longer.
He rose, drawing on his trousers and shirt and boots. He went to the door and opened it, stepping out onto the balcony beyond.
Talib was there, standing guard in the shadows. He glanced at her and frowned. “You should have gone. I do not need a caretaker.”
She arched an eyebrow at him. “I did leave. I could not sleep. I came back.”
He snorted a brief laugh at that. How very like her. She was his best soldier, and he would hate to lose her—though he already knew he must. “Has there been any news about what happened in Wellmont?”
“None,” she said, shaking her head. “But then, you asked very general questions.”
“They will mean the right things to the right people,” he said. “Just keep your ear out. We must learn what happened there, before—”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. Before what? It was getting harder and harder to tell. Something was changing. Accelerating. Increasing the presence of the dreamsight in the wakin
g world, leaving him more and more confused about what he had seen in true life and what in a dream. And it all had something to do with what had happened at Wellmont.
But he still did not know what that was.
Talib still watched him, waiting for him to finish speaking. She was one of the two whom he let see him this way. The boy had to see him as all-knowing, sardonic, and certain. But with Talib—and one other—he felt he could let down his guard.
In fact, he knew he must. Or he would never get what he truly wanted.
“There is something else,” he said. “Someone else entering the equation.”
“Oh?” said Talib. “Who?”
“You have heard of the Nightblade?”
Talib snorted. “A few whispered stories.”
“Then that is an advantage, because she knows little enough of us. But she will. She is coming.”
Talib shot up straight in her chair. “Here? To the Seat?”
“I … I do not know.” He frowned as he realized it was true. He had never seen her in a location that he knew. Only in Dorsea. But he could not be certain that was where he would see her. “I only know she is looking for me.”
“And what do we care?” said Talib. “She is little more than a campfire tale. She cannot have done half the things they have said about her.”
“She has not. But she has done other things that no one speaks of at all. Not yet, at any rate.”
Finally Talib stood, coming to stand before him. “Mako, I do not understand. What does she have to do with anything?”
Mako grinned, his teeth glinting in the moonslight. “In truth, I do not know. But I very much look forward to finding out.”
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Yerrin: A Book of Underrealm (The Nightblade Epic 6) Page 29